


the traffic cop says, slow

by orphan_account



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: 5 Times, Brother/Sister Incest, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-01
Updated: 2007-04-01
Packaged: 2019-08-22 18:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16602998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: or, five times Lindsay went to visit Michael in Phoenix.It takes five hours and twenty-nine minutes to drive from her home to his; it only takes a little over two hours to hit Tijuana—she should have gone there instead.





	the traffic cop says, slow

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the traffic cop says, slow](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/432230) by falseeeyelashes. 



She's a terrible driver.

She tells him this once, while intercepting a phone call at her mother's, shrill ring of the phone, the shriller still shriek of her mother—"answer that!"

"You never visit," he says, in lieu of hello.

"I'm a terrible driver."

He knows.

 

* * *

**1 –**

**the red lights mean you're leaving—**

The first time—she drives twenty miles per hour over the speed limit the entire way there, that is, until she turns down a side street and she's suddenly crawling twenty miles below the speed limit to the entrance of his new neighborhood (the word  _cactus_  might be in the name; she might snort at this).

She curves into the neighborhood and stops; the engine idles. There aren't any clouds and she sits there for eight minutes (first a Billy Joel song plays on the radio, then an old Madonna song), drumming a fresh manicure against the steering wheel.

"This is stupid," she says.

She throws the car into drive and makes a sharp U-turn out of his neighborhood. The tires squeal.

Gene Parmesan repeats the motion behind her.

 

* * *

**2 –**

**the white ones mean returning—**

The second time she sips from a bottle of cough syrup (don't ask) the entire drive and calls it courage.

She pulls into his drive, the garage door open, two bikes propped up inside, bare, empty, missing the clutter most family garages possess (there aren't any old, broken birdhouses or kites that can't fly or old oil stains on the gray concrete). She throws the rest of the bottle back and fiddles with the handle of the door, finally throwing it open.

"Lindsay?" a voice says behind her— _Michael_ —and she swallows, hard, tasting syrupy, sickening, sweet.

"Michael?" she yelps in turn, in surprise, and he's sweaty, hands on his hips, old t-shirt and running shorts and shoes. "What are you doing here?"

He frowns and crosses his arms, tilts his head just a little. "I live here. Remember? The better question, I think, is what are you doing here?" and he points at her with this and she can feel a ridiculously false explanation gurgling forth and her lips still taste both medicinal and cherry.

"Oh my God—I got the wrong house. I came out here to visit the—the—the Cactus Roses," she says (pause and rewind to Lindsay turning into the neighborhood; read the sign:  _Cactus Roses_ ), "the Cactus Rose family. Mom must have given me the wrong address. I mean—Phoenix!"

There's a nervous laugh and an awkward arm gesture and she can tell from the smirk stretching across his lips he's not buying a word of this.

Her laughter dwindles down to a rough clearing of her throat. "Well. I guess I'm off in search of the—uh—Cactus Roses. Nice seeing you, Michael. Send George Michael our love."

She's back behind the wheel with the door shut before he can say a word.

She drives home kind of drunk, in the lamest way possible.

 

* * *

**3 –**

**the headlights look like diamonds, the taillights burn like coals—**

The third time she blames the Phoenix Turtles (pause: this is not a real sports team; do not consult ESPN with questions regarding them) and her love of their sport (whatever that may be) and just thought she'd drop by since she was in the neighborhood (here, there would be an anxious exclamation mark and Lindsay's nerves at their breaking point).

They drink iced tea and talk about the weather, their mother and that one time she made the worst mistake of her life (this part is ambiguous; we could be talking about the time she married Tobias, the time she remained wed to Tobias, the time she didn't show up at his wife's funeral or the that one time she let Michael pack all his belongings and move to motherfucking  _Phoenix_ ).

He kisses her on the cheek when she leaves.

It's summer; she shivers.

 

* * *

**4 –**

**the countryside's deserted, there's no one on the farms—**

The next time—they sip on Jack and cokes and she laughs instead of talks and he smiles and nods.

She empties her glass out in the sink as the clock on the microwave glows 11:18 in green; she catches first her reflection in the window then his.

It's an accident, she swears (and if you must know, she's used this line before: once when she was sixteen, twice when she was eighteen, a handful of times over his college years, only once before he got married—)

She turns around and he's there, broad chest, smelling like soap, not aftershave, like booze and a hint of skin.

She kisses him quickly, one arm still bent awkwardly, hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other wrapped around him, fingers scratching at the nape of his neck.

He kisses back, soft tongue, and she yelps.

"Oh, God. I have to go."

She leaves her keys on the counter and runs back in to get them, an upheld hand shielding her eyes from his.

 

* * *

**5 –**

**the suburbs are all sleeping, the earthquakes set off car alarms—**

The last time, she doesn't come in. She stands on the front stoop, fingers playing with a pair of sunglasses.

Finally, it's "come home," she says, and that might be a pleading note you hear at the end of that.

It's almost four AM; He smiles.


End file.
